Lāmentum
by Ena6Ena
Summary: AU. Sherlock Holmes is a psychiatrist at a London mental hospital. Given a case where PTSD has ruined a patient's and others' lives, Sherlock meets a man who wishes for his life back, but also wants Sherlock to have something he never knew he was lacking.
1. Chapter 1

((Hey, welcome to my fanfic~ I've submitted to before, but ended up having to leave my old account behind… This was a random idea I had, inspired by events in my life that nearly happened.

There is going to be eventual Sherlock/John, but it's not going to be heavy or explicit. But this is rated 'T' for some mature themes that will be running around in the story.

Oh, I also have a tumblr account. My username on there is ena-ena and I will most likely will be posting art on that account inspired by this fanfic. I already have a few drawings done that will be posted. So if you're interested, keep an eye on it~ Anyways, enough chatter from me, I hope you enjoy this! -EE )

"Do you know why you're here?"

"The FBI. The FBI is after me, they want to know what I know. But it's not safe… for them to… Um…"

He takes mental note of how she continuously shifts in her chair, how she anxiously twirls her fingers in her knotted hair, and how her gaze darts around the plainly decorated room. "The American FBI?" he asks, glancing down at the notes from her previous sessions.

"Yes. Yes, ever since I was fifty-nine."

"Mrs Ferriston, you are forty-one years old."

"Exactly! That's why they want me! I'm aging the opposite, and moving backwards in time! I was born in the future! And things were changed, let me tell you, ever since I met those dinosaur men."

He pauses, looking into her eyes as she stares at him through her coke-bottle glasses with an excited smile. Her hair is now even more knotted than it was when she first stepped in.

"Alright," Sherlock Holmes sighs, writing down a stronger prescription for her. "I think we're done for today."

_-Behind my smile is everything that you will never understand.-_

Sherlock is broken out of deep thought as a manila folder is slapped down onto the desk he's sitting behind. He looks up to see Lestrade standing there, an almost expectant look on his face. "New case for you," he simply says.

"I'm already up to my maximum quota," Sherlock informs him, though Lestrade should be fully aware of that.

"We're giving two of your patients to Anderson," Lestrade replies.

"Annie Ferriston?"

"… Yes, that's one of them, actually."

"At least Anderson likes dinosaurs."

"What?"

"Nothing. Poor bastards," Sherlock sighs, going to pick up and open the folder he was given. He only glances over the main facts of diagnosis and the date of commitment. His eyes flick back up to his favorite hospital case manager. "PTSD?"

He catches Lestrade in the act of trying to sneak away and avoid conflict. "Yes," he huffs, already able to guess what was coming next.

"Boring. You know I don't take cases like this," he says, closing the folder and thrusting it in Lestrade's direction.

"Holmes…"

"Give him to Donovan."

"Sherlock…"

"You know which cases I take. Give me those who believe in conspiracies. The dredge of society. The murderers."

Lestrade goes silent, standing there awkwardly as they stare each other down. "You need to take a better look at that case, then," he says, raising an eyebrow as he finally leaves.

Sherlock frowns in frustration, opening up the folder and reading the reason he was being sent here.

He finally cracks a slightly pleased smile.

_-You are never as lonely as you feel, or alone as you think.-_

"How are you adjusting here?"

He was given a day to get used to the daily routine, and observed so that preliminary medication could be applied.

"Good… Good, all right." He's tapping his fingers on his knee as he slouches forward in his chair. He licks his lips, either out of habit or nervousness.

"Do you think you belong here?" Sherlock calmly asks without accusation.

"Oh yes, right along with that man who has an unnatural love of how the nervous system reacts to being poked, and the lady who shrieks whenever she's touched." He's trying to joke, trying to be upbeat and optimistic. He most likely believes that if he's agreeable, he will be able to get out of here faster.

"What's your name?"

"You know my name. You know everything about me, though you haven't met me." He's looking at the clipboard of paperwork that Sherlock is holding on his lap.

"I actually don't know every detail about you, though I have taken in some details from observation," Sherlock answers. He sets his clipboard aside, noticing the negative first impression it's probably giving off.

"Like what?" He looks genuinely curious and interested, versus the apprehension Sherlock is typically met with when expressing his unusual skill set.

"You were occupied in military service in either Iraq or Afghanistan. You were a doctor. You don't truly need that cane you've been using."

"You read all that in my files ahead of time."

"No, I only read the very basic facts when given new cases. It makes my job so much more interesting."

"So how were you able to piece those statements together from observing me?"

"First of all, your hands and wrists are tanned from exposure to sun. It's currently August. It's been a very warm summer, to where wearing anything long-sleeved would be unnatural. If you were wearing a t-shirt, or something with short sleeves, your tan would not begin at your wrists. You have been wearing something with long sleeves. The most probable attire is a protective military uniform. Most of the conflict going on that requires military attention is in either Iraq or Afghanistan, where it is particularly sunny. Your hair is short, neat, and well-kept, characteristic of someone who has been under the influence of military regulations. When you first met me, you examined me up and down, most likely to determine if I had any sort of apparent medical issues. Typical soldiers tend to assess the face and eyes, looking for an expression or demeanor that would determine how much of a threat a stranger is. You are a soldier, but under the medical division. And your limp is psychosomatic. I can tell that you weren't injured in your leg, but you have been injured somewhere enough to have you discharged," Sherlock firmly expresses, going a little overboard. Well, it's safe to assume that his patient will take this at least relatively well, based on his previous expression of interest.

"That was… amazing. Brilliant," he replied, his eyes widening as he allows a small smile to grace his lips.

"I'm glad you think so. Most reactions I gain are typically expressed very differently," Sherlock admits.

"What do others typically say?"

"'Piss off'."

He lets out a slight chuckle while Sherlock begins to think that he's going to enjoy this case.

"I think that will do for today," Sherlock says, standing up and going to shake his new patient's hand. Fortunately, he feels at ease enough to return the friendly gesture. "I'll be checking in on you, Mr. Watson."

"Just… John, please. I would be much more comfortable with being called that."

_-The sun can rise and set. If your sun had set, don't worry. I'm your moon. I can give you a light through the darkness.-_

The next time Sherlock sees John, it's the next day, while in the middle of a stroll during creative therapy time. While some residents listen to music or to stories being read aloud, others inhabit the arts and crafts section.

John is there, idly sitting in front of an untouched, torn-out coloring book page, crayons in a Tupperware container nearby. He has a relatively sullen look of displeasure on his face as he stares down at the page. Sherlock decides to take time out of his 'busy' schedule to visit him. John looks up at his doctor as he takes an empty seat across from him at the plastic table.

"Not one for participating in the arts?" Sherlock asks in an attempt to chat.

"No, not really. But more against being treated like an elementary school student," he sighs, looking down.

"Completely understandable," Sherlock agrees, glancing around the room at the other patients having a blast with the same activity. "You don't like music or stories, either?"

"I don't mind music. And again, I prefer to not be treated like a child," he explains, the latter statement referring to the circle currently sitting down across the room in front of a staff member reading a picture book.

"Would you prefer reading something on your own?"

"Yes, that would be much better. Actually, do you have any recent newspapers?"

Newspapers tend to provide articles and picture about the country's status and progress in the war. Sherlock decides it would be best to avoid that subject matter, since there's no telling what John's reaction would be at this early stage in his treatment. "We don't. But we have a library with quite a few books."

"Good enough." John shrugs, not too upset about it for the moment.

Sherlock nods with a reassuring smile. He and John stand up, Sherlock starting to lead him in the right direction. They walk not incredibly far down a nearby hall, stopping in front of a locked door with a 'Library' sign attached to it. It's dark in the room as Sherlock detaches a ring of keys from his belt, unlocking and opening the door.

"Is this alright? Will I be getting you in trouble?" John worriedly asks, hesitant to step inside.

"One thing you may not know about me is that I am always in trouble," Sherlock states with an amused tone. "And now you know."

John lets out a slight chuckle. The sound of that reassures Sherlock, and gives him a slight feeling of optimism over how easily the treatment might progress.

Even though he knows that John won't be discharged for a very long time.


	2. Chapter 2

((Second chapter! Btw, I'll be posting some art on my tumblr from this relatively soon. Just some quick sketches. And there are most likely going to be more to come. If you want the link there, it's on my profile page~

I talked to my grandmother a long while ago about PTSD, since her ex-husband (my grandpa) had problems with that. I soak up all the reference I can and pray to all things magical that I'm not too far off~ So yeah! Here you go! -EE ))

. . .

It's another week before Sherlock finally attempts to discuss the reason why John was admitted.

"Do you know why you're here?" Sherlock asks. He takes mental note of John's demeanor. He's unsettled. He's not comfortable, and seems to making no effort to get comfortable. He sits hunched over in the chair, wringing his hands.

"Because I'm a loony," he answers.

"I mean, what action brought you here?" Sherlock clarifies without hesitation.

John goes silent, staring at the floor. He has no desire to answer the question.

"Do you believe that you need the treatment that we're trying to give you?"

Sherlock is met with silence again.

"Now that I have the required questions out of the way, I can ask how you and your sister are getting along," Sherlock says, breaking away from what he's instructed to ask all patients.

"And how did you deduce that I have a sister?" John asks, looking up at the man who's been more accommodating than the nurses enforcing routine.

"Actually, I just read your file."

John lets out a short laugh of amusement at that. "She's… kind to me. Worries a lot about me. She's a bit of an alcoholic at times, so I also worry about her," he basically explains.

"Has she visited you here yet?" Sherlock asks.

John shakes his head. "No… I think she's been taking comfort in the bottle lately… After all that happened. So money is a bit tight right now for her."

"Did she attend your court cases?"

John goes silent again, a sullen look crossing his face. He's silent for a little while, but then finally speaks up again. "No… She couldn't bring herself to…"

"Has she called you lately?"

"Twice."

John grows quiet again. He seems a bit averse to volunteering any information or conversation of his own. Sherlock can tell that the environment is getting to him. Not just this room, but also the facility in general. He's grown quieter and more reserved over the past week.

"John… you're not just like all of the other people here."

John's gaze flicks up to Sherlock as his expression hardens. "I know that."

_-The display of grief makes more demands than grief itself. How few men are sad in their own company.-_

The next day, Sherlock walks around the common area. The patients are all doing their own little activities, chatting about odd things, watching the telly, or just sitting around silently. Mrs. Ferriston is following around a patient that repetitively paces around rooms, telling him all about the dinosaurs that changed her life. Sherlock spots John standing away from everyone else, looking out the window.

Sherlock walks over to join him, standing beside his patient in silence. Through the bars of the window is a view of the building's enclosed backyard. Beyond its walls, the skyline of London can be seen. The Thames isn't incredibly far away.

"Do the windows have to have bars over them?" John asks.

"Yes. It's for the safety of everyone."

"… You mean the people… outside? You're protecting them from us…" It's more of a statement than a question.

"Yes. With your military experience, I'm willing to bet you could easily break a window with a chair."

"The chairs are made of plastic…"

"I'm still willing to bet you're quite capable."

John manages to crack a slight smile, though it has a hint of sorrow.

Sherlock pauses before he finally speaks again. "I wish there weren't bars. It makes this place seem so much more like a prison."

"That's because it is."

_-Don't make best friends with a melancholy sad soul. They are always heavily loaded, and you must bear half.-_

It's another night where Sherlock stays in the facility to review files, write about his deductions and experiences with patients, and keep an eye on the monitors. There are cameras in each room, so that everyone can easily be observed during sleeping hours. It's another fairly normal overnight stay for Sherlock. He has so many things to think about, his mind racing too much to let him sleep.

Robert Sommers' case is being reviewed. Some of the doctors believe that he's capable of being discharged. He's ready to reenter society, where he will stay in a halfway home until the job he will be given allows him to live on his own. Sherlock believes that he's not ready. He still has an odd twitch whenever the subject of cars is brought up in his therapy sessions. He's not over the car crash that he was in, that caused the death of his brother and brother's wife. London is too full of cars for him to function normally again. Maybe if he could-

Sherlock sighs as the lights flicker a bit. A thunder and lightening storm is beginning to roll through. He can hear the steady sound of rain start to pelt the windows of the office. It gets a little heavier as the thunder becomes louder. Sherlock wonders if he should call the maintenance staff downstairs to ready the power generator, just in case. Unfortunately, they're more irritable on the night shift than he is.

He glances at the clock, seeing the minute hand hit twelve. It's now 2am. Time to write down quick status updates on the patients, always to be done every hour on the hour. Sherlock pulls out the clipboard from the large desk that the monitors are set up on. Taking the cap off the attached pen, he turns his attention to the numerous small screens in front of him as there's a bright flash from outside. A clap of thunder follows soon after, almost seeming to shake the building.

Brown, sleeping, 4 hours. Hale, sleeping, restrained, 5 hours. Norton, sleeping, 3 1/2 hours. Ferriston, sleeping, 4 hours. Wright, sleeping, 6 hours. Watson…

Sherlock leans forward a little, watching John toss and turns restlessly. He's asleep… He seems to be. Sherlock stands up, setting the clipboard down. He doesn't hesitate to leave the room and head towards the bedrooms. Four doors down on the left, he stops. He pulls the ring of keys off his belt to unlock door. Quietly swinging it open, he steps inside. He closes it enough to leave it cracked open for a little bit of light, then walks the short distance to stand beside John's bed.

The ex-army doctor is shaking, writhing in his sleep whenever the thunder sounds out from through the window. The flashes of lightning are also penetrating the barred glass.

Sherlock jumps a little as John suddenly sits up, his eyes opening wide in terror. Before he can do anything about it, John gets up and grabs Sherlock. He forces his psychiatrist down to the ground and shoves him under the bed. Sherlock managed to keep his head from banging into the doorframe as he gets under. John doesn't join him, instead blocking the opening underneath the bed, as if sheltering Sherlock from bombs, shrapnel, or whatever danger he is imagining at the moment. He has broken out into a cold sweat as he hyperventilates.

Sherlock watches him for a while as the storm persists. Despite what other doctors may say, he has always believes the theory that trying to stop war flashbacks forcefully is more detrimental than helpful to mental health.

After a minute, Sherlock speaks up in a calm and even tone. "Your name is John Watson. You were an army doctor. You were discharged after an injury and illness. You are now in London. You're being treated for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. John… This is a thunder and lightening storm. You are no longer in Afghanistan. You are safe."

His patient seems to calm down a little, his breathing evening out a bit.

"John Watson. You are safe. You aren't involved in the war anymore. You are in London. You are safe right now."

John lets out a shaky sigh, his eyes closing halfway. Despite the storm continuing its loud path through the city, he is calming down. He looks at Sherlock. Sherlock knows that now he remembers what's going on.

He carefully pushes John away from the opening leading to under the bed, being careful not to startle him. He manages to create enough space to crawl over John. Crouching on the ground beside him now, Sherlock lifts him into a sitting position. John complies, feeling utterly exhausted from the stress-inducing flashback. Sherlock gets up, lifting John with him. It takes a bit of effort and care, but Sherlock manages to get him back into bed.

John stares at the ceiling above him as Sherlock pulls the blankets over him. He walks over to the sink area in the room, retrieving a washcloth, running a little bit of water over it. After wringing it out, he comes back to stand by John's bedside. He gingerly wipes the sweat off of John's face and neck, John staring at Sherlock.

"Go back to sleep. You're fine now," Sherlock reassures him. John nods a little, closing his eyes. The claps of thunder are starting to recede into the distance a little. After making sure his patient is actually resting, he leaves the room. He closes the door behind himself, locking it and then reattaching the keys to his belt. Sherlock walks back towards the office, dropping the washcloth into a laundry cart nearby as he passes it.

_-Next to a lost battle, nothing is so sad as a battle that has been won.-_

"I saw the video of last night."

Sherlock ignores him, typing up what will soon be an update to his website on the science of deduction.

"I'm not the only one who's seen it."

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, considering putting a new puzzle on the website.

"Damnit, Sherlock, will you listen to me?" Lestrade is frustrated by Sherlock's lack of response. He's used to this sort of treatment, despite that. Trying to get the doctor to listen to issues he's causing is like getting a child to eat vegetables sometimes.

"I full well know what I did last night, Lestrade. After all, I was there." Sherlock tilts his head to the other side, raising an eyebrow as he continues to stare at the computer screen.

"You know the standard procedures. First of all, you left the door open."

"Cracked open."

"Then you went along with Dr. Watson's flashback."

"You should keep up on modern psychology discoveries. I was merely testing a theory."

"You didn't sedate him during or afterwards."

"He doesn't need that."

"You didn't strap him down after getting him back into bed."

"The flashback was over. He didn't need that, either."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" Lestrade is very close to being furious right now. "You need to follow procedures more often! It's hard enough convincing the board to keep you here, especially with the fact that you don't even have a degree, let alone a Ph.D to treat these people."

"Yet I produce better results than the rest of the staff here." Sherlock states the obvious. He isn't wrong about that. Not to mention that he is the first person many of the other doctors go to for consultations, though they were often very secretive about doing so.

"You can at least take off your scarf. I'm glad I was able to convince you not to wear that peacoat, but the scarf is a hazard. You can be choked with it if someone grabs it the right way." This is a problem that is often brought up. It's one of the minor things that the board likes to nitpick about Sherlock. Though it's a futile effort to convince Sherlock to stop wearing it.

"Not taking it off."

"Just… be careful, Sherlock. You're treading dangerous waters here. We have standards and systems to follow. If you manage to make a large mistake, there's not a damn thing I can do to get you out of trouble. You'll be gone in no time." Lestrade walks out, not wanting to argue anymore.

Sherlock updates his website.

_-The sad truth is that excellence makes people nervous.-_

"Do you remember when you had your last flashback?"

"It was last night."

Sherlock sighs. "Before that."

John looks away. "Only what it caused."

"What would you say it caused?"

"… Misery. Anger."

"For you?"

"… For everyone involved."


	3. Chapter 3

((Next chapter! Yaaay~ I've been writing these chapters in my notebook in class. Even though my teacher said to pay full attention to the (boring) movies. He caught me. And asked me to stop. I almost lied, "I'm taking notes!" but the chances of him asking to see the notes were too high to risk it. I'm accepting full responsibility and paying attention now. … Naw, I just don't want him reading my gay porn. (heavy exaggeration/sarcasm)

So, yeah! Oh, and I don't mean to be a beggar, but I would appreciate reviews if you have the time. Critique, comments, worship (lol jk), anything would make me really happy. I like to know if I'm going in the right direction. But only if you have the time~

And now, chapter three~ -EE ))

. . .

"What was your injury? The one that had you discharged?"

"… I was shot. In the shoulder. It um… shattered through the bone and damaged the subclavian artery. Then, when I was recovering… I got sick."

John has been here for three weeks now. He is becoming a little more open with Sherlock, though more withdrawn among others. He doesn't interact with the other residents. He only talks to other employees when he must. The flashback has earned him stronger medication, Sherlock manages to half the number of prescriptions that other doctors want to get into him.

"If you were injured, why do you need the cane?" Sherlock knows why.

"Shouldn't you be telling me? You're the doctor."

John needs to learn to reflect on his mind's condition on his own.

"Believe it or not, I'm not here to tell you all about yourself and your problems. I'm here to help you better understand yourself through aided self-discovery." Sherlock leans forward with a smile.

For once, John doesn't respond with a pessimistic response as he blankly stares at his psychiatrist.

_-Affliction comes to us, not to make us sad but sober; not to make us sorry but wise.-_

"So, what is it that you do… outside?" John asks without looking up from his book.

Sherlock pauses from inspecting the contents of the library shelves. He and John are alone, the facility's library open for their private use. Sherlock does it almost every day now.

"Sleep. Eat. Shower… Drink tea," he lists in response.

"No hobbies?"

"My work is my life."

"… No girlfriend?"

"Again, my work is my life."

"Boyfriend, then?" John is lightly teasing now.

"John, don't make me repeat myself for a third time."

His patient laughs a little, looking up from his book. "You have any siblings, then?"

"Just one," Sherlock answers with a nonchalant shrug.

"Name? Older or younger? Relationship status?"

"Playing psychiatrist now? I thought you were a certified doctor of the body, not the mind," he chuckles. "Mycroft. Older. Strained… but not that bad."

"Strained? Sounds like me and Harry. Or most sibling relationships." John seems to be enjoying this normal conversation.

"Oh, no. He's overbearing, over-concerned, likes to intrude into my personal matters, and oftentimes seems to think I owe him favors." Sherlock sighs, looking at the books again. The library needs some updating…

"Like many sibling relationships."

Sherlock frowns a little, though not upset. "Never really compared our relationship to other sibling relationships. I don't like to think there's anyone else out there who has to put up with similar antics that Mycroft puts me through. It's a rather depressing thought."

John laughs a bit more heartily this time. Sherlock decides he likes that sound.

_-Sad things happen. They do. But we don't need to live sad forever.-_

It's not private session time, but Sherlock is chatting with Mr. Brown in the lounge. "How did the visit with your uncle go?" Sherlock asks.

"Oh, oh, good. I like when he visits, very pleasant," Shamus Brown replies, wildly turning his head in all possible directions to keep an eye on the room and all its occupants.

"Did he manage to sneak in some sweets to you, again?"

Sherlock quickly glances away to spot John near the window.

"Yes, how did you know?" Shamus asks, leaning forward with his eyes wide open.

"You're feeling paranoid, yet again. You're afraid someone's going to take some. You're hiding some on you right now."

John is staring at them not-so-discreetly out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes, yes, yes. They're going to attempt to take it soon, I am certain of it."

John is barely leaning on his cane today.

"May I have some, please?" Sherlock isn't exactly fond of sweets, but he would rather avoid having Mr. Brown's visiting privileges suspended. That would definitely set back progress for a while.

John is looking out the window again, a slightly sullen expression now occupying his face.

"I only have one piece left, but since you asked so nicely, I, I, I think I will give it to you."

Sherlock's full attention is focused on his patient now as he goes digging down his pants, particularly in the area where the sun doesn't shine. Sherlock manages to mask his supreme disgust somehow as he accepts the sweet dropped into his hand. He quickly shoves it into his pocket before he can fully register how warm it is. "Thank you, Mr. Brown." He forces a smile.

"No, thank you! Thank you, doctor. I feel very free now!" He gets up from the chair and prances away, declaring to the whole room, "I have nothing for you lot to steal from me now!"

Sherlock sighs, ready to give his hands a good wash. Maybe it would be beneficial to emulate Lady Macbeth and wash them several times, though it would not be guilt-driven.

Before going to do so, Sherlock gets up to check on John. He walks over and asks, "What are you thinking about?"

"Just admiring how you're able to handle all these people and their problems every day." His sullen look is dispelled, cracking a slight smile.

"It certainly is a task. But it's important to me."

"Makes sense. We all have things we love to do."

"What do you love to do, John?"

"… I really don't want to think about that right now."

Sherlock curtly nods, staring out the window with John.

"Would you like a sweet?" Sherlock asks to break the silence.

"I… guess?"

"No. You don't want the candy."

"Alright."

_-Men of genius are often dull and inert in society; as the blazing meteor, when it descends to earth, is only a stone.-_

Sherlock mentally curses Anderson in his head for the one hundred and seventy-fourth time so far today. He feels it's time to give him a house call to berate him again. It's keeping him from abusing undeserving coworkers instead.

He dials the number, satisfied when Anderson picks up after a few rings.

"Your stupidity is still in the middle of astounding me," Sherlock says before Anderson can even get a word out.

"Holmes. _Stop calling me_."

"Honestly, are you sure you went to school? Or were you absent for every class, finding any possible thing you could do to kill brain cells?"

"I'm going to hang up now."

"Coming in when infected with influenza!"

"I'm not the one who's sick! It's my girlfriend!"

Sherlock quickly pushes the aside the thoughts of what poor, foolish female decided Anderson would make a good partner. "You don't have to be sick to transfer it. You can easily carry it around after being exposed to someone who's in the contagious stage. Especially someone you're very close to. And when I say very close, I think you understand that I mean-"

"Just because I went to school for psychology doesn't mean I'm ignorant of how bodily illnesses work."

"Well, you're doing a very good job of fooling me."

Anderson hangs up without another word.

Sherlock realizes he's been pacing, having to walk back to put the phone back on the receiver he retrieved it from. He looks out the window to observe the bedroom hallway and the lounge area, observing the abundance of nurses borrowed from a nearby hospital walking around. The building's clinic has already been filled, many patients having to be treated in their own rooms.

Flu season has barely begun. Sherlock is fully aware that Anderson couldn't be the sole culprit of this disaster, it being near impossible for one person to make sixty-three percent of the residents sick. Influenza shots had been scheduled for next week. Though it was too late now.

There are only three patients from this floor's ward in the lounge, all healthy, watching the telly. John is among them, sitting at a table nearby instead of on one of the couches or comfortable chairs with the others.

Sherlock walks out of the office with the intent to join him. He needs to stop calling Anderson, before Lestrade gives him another lecture on behaving. Taking a seat at the table across from John, he notes how his patient was previously staring into space. His attention is now turned to a rather welcome distraction.

"Being kept twice as busy now?" John asks.

"Quite the contrary. With the sick patients secluded in their rooms for flu treatment and thus out of my hands, I have nothing to do. You are my only uninfected patient. Congratulations."

"I'm proud," John says with a smile and a nod.

"Anything you want to talk about? I know we have a session scheduled for tomorrow, but I am incredibly bored."

"Not really, sorry. I know I'm probably not making a lot of progress, I'm sorry."

"You are…" Sherlock reassures him, looking John in the eyes.

He looks fatigued.

"If you say so. I hope you're right."

"These sorts of things take time. Which I have plenty of devote." Sherlock lightly slaps the table top while standing, saying, "Now, let's get some lunch. The food quality improves when the residents are sick, fortunately."

"Something to look forward to, then, though I feel a bit bad for thinking so." John grabs his cane, his movements shaky. Sherlock quickly walks around to the other side of the table to join his patient as he stands.

Sure enough, John stumbles a bit to the side in dizziness. Sherlock swiftly catches him by the shoulders before he can fall, then gently guides him back to sitting on the chair. He jiggles his sleeve down a bit to feel John's forehead with the back of his hand, and is alarmed by the heat his touch is met with.

"Nurse!" Sherlock calls out to one passing by with a tray of medicine. She hands it off to another nurse who is approaching from a bedroom, then jogs over.

"Influenza symptoms?" she asks, cautiously inspecting John's appearance.

"Yes, most likely. With you escort us to the clinic?"

"Of course." She grabs John's cane as Sherlock helps John to his feet, going to support him. They slowly and carefully head in the right direction.

"Probably just a cold," John mumbles, involuntarily leaning his unnervingly warm body onto Sherlock.

"You're burning up. I not going to readily believe your undoubtedly impaired diagnosis at the moment," Sherlock responds.

"I don't want to be sick in both ways…"

"You're only sick in one way, John."


	4. Chapter 4

((Sorry for the slight delay in posting this chapter! I've been a bit sick lately. Long story short, I am lactose intolerant, I went to a restaurant notorious for its use of butter, thought I did a good job of avoiding dishes with a lot of butter, was proved wrong over the course of the next week. DERP.

Oh, and I think it's fairly obvious at times that I'm not British? If I get any slang or words wrong, please let me know so that I can go back and correct them~ That would be much appreciated!

Anyways, here's the next chapter~))

. . .

Sherlock is allowed into John's room three days later. The medical staff is strict about how patients are handled when sick, wanting to prevent the spread of illness and make sure the recovery environment is stable. Sherlock has been vaccinated already, so he doesn't feel worried about catching anything.

He quietly steps into the room, taking in the sight of the ex-army doctor. John is sleeping in bed, still a bit flushed from fever and letting out an occasional cough or two. He's over the worst of it by now, though it will take another few days to a week for all the symptoms to clear up. Sherlock pulls over the chair that a nurse left behind in the room, taking a seat by John's bedside.

He takes note that John has been partially restrained. There's a strap around his wrist, attached to the bed frame with a decent amount of slack. He has the freedom to change position on the bed if he wants to, but can't get away. Whenever doors are left open to more easily monitor the residents in times of need, the staff prefers to eliminate the possibility of them leaving the room. Otherwise, the doors are just closed and locked.

John starts to have a minor coughing fit, using his free hand to cover his mouth. It's hard enough to wake him up. He notices Sherlock sitting there as soon as the irritation in his chest dies.

"Good afternoon," Sherlock greets him as John looks at him up and down.

"How long… since…" John lets out, rubbing his eyes.

"Three days. It's been incredibly agonizing for me. All of my patients sick, absolutely nothing to do. I resort to going through old files and sitting around. Dreadful way to spend three days," Sherlock theatrically complains.

John lets out a slight chuckle. "Want to trade places, then?"

"No, but thank you for the offer. So, now for the standard question. How are you feeling?"

"Like I've been hit by a truck, then it backed up for good measure."

"Want me to leave you alone to rest, then?"

"No, not really… Feeling a bit bored at the moment." John sighs, getting a bit comfortable. He frowns at the restraint on his wrist, being reminded that it's there.

"Good, because I have things to discuss," Sherlock says enthusiastically. "You would not believe what Bethany Hale has been through. This woman is only twenty-two years old, but has been traveling all over the UK since age fifteen. She would just backpack everywhere with her German Sheppard, walking from town to town. Fooled people into believing she was doing this for different charity organizations, and made loads of money from donations."

"… Interesting."

"The dogs died, and she went on a rampage. Killed almost a whole campsite of hunters with their own guns after burying her dog."

"Wait, I think this is usually something you keep confidential…"

"But ran away and managed to live in the sewers of London for a year until she was found. Now, whenever I ask her the dog's name, she sort of starts shivering and fidgeting with anything nearby. She also won't talk about what her life was like before she started all this running around. There were no missing persons reports filed for her when she began this."

"You can't tell me information like this…"

"Technically I can, I'm actually doing it right now. So, when I look at her, I think I can guess what she's been through. Most likely a rape victim, raped numerous times, or at the very least abused, as she seems to be afraid of men. The sort of fear I see in her eyes hints to the possibility that the damage was done when she was young and very impressionable. Add the fact that she seems to be more frightened of older men, she was most likely abused by a close, male family member that's older than her. She's particularly terrified of Mr. Carter, a man with a shade of red hair that's similar to hers. This suggests that whoever did this to her was either her father, or possibly even an uncle, someone who has inherited the family genes for red hair."

John has spent the entire time trying to butt in, wanting Sherlock to stop all of this. Revealing so much about other patients could get him in trouble.

"I have asked her about her mother. Her story changes every time, though a constant seems to be that her mother was never around much."

"Stop. Just stop," John demands.

"I'm sorry, do you have something you want to add? I value the opinions of others. … Sometimes. Well, not that often at all. But perhaps you can provide some insight."

"My opinion is that you should stop talking about Miss Hale. It's rude for you to be giving away such details that she most likely told you in confidence during a session. Not to mention that you could get in serious trouble."

"They'll just slap me on the hand and send me on my way," Sherlock says with a nonchalant shrug. "Besides, there are no microphones or anything in here, they can't hear what we're talking about. So I can keep a secret if you can."

"Still… It's rude. And not right of you to be telling me all of this."

"John… I think a lot better oftentimes when speaking aloud. Especially when someone is listening. Though, it's incredibly hard to find the right person to listen to me. Telling you all of this is actually helping me think more about these cases. You're really helping me," Sherlock genuinely says. John may have protested against his disrespect of confidentiality, but he probably could have done a lot more to stop him.

John is silent, just staring at Sherlock. He's not incredibly sure what to say at this point. So much of his time here has been spent with other people trying to help him, and set him right. It's been a long time since he's helped somebody…

Sherlock gets up, placing the chair back off to the side. "I'll let you rest, now. I can tell you feel like rubbish as the moment, and are not really in the mood to talk." He goes to leave the room without another word.

"Dr. Holmes," John calls out, causing him to stop in the doorframe. "I… can keep a secret. If you need to talk again…" He's very hesitant to go along with this, but he enjoys being more involved with what's going on around here. He doesn't want to be useless.

"Much appreciated. Oh, and call me Sherlock. 'Dr. Holmes' is too… formal." He shudders a little and steps out of John's room.

_-The walls we build around us to keep out the sadness also keep out the joy.-_

The next three weeks' sessions go in a completely different direction. John listens to Sherlock as he rambles on and on about all these other patients. He gives out confidential details left and right as if talking about the weather. John comments occasionally, something that Sherlock tends to appreciate. He likes some of the things John says, keeping the conversations engaging. John isn't quite able to pay attention to all the details that Sherlock always picks out, but he turns out to be a valuable companion.

Sherlock can't help but notice something important with John during this time. He isn't using the cane. Well, he's still carrying it around, but barely leans on it at all.

That's when Sherlock comes up with a fairly simple plan to end this nonsense.

He catches John as he's sitting at a table in the lounge, watching the telly nearby. "John, I need you to come with me, quickly," Sherlock says, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Mrs. Ferriston had made a mess in the library while it was open. If any of the staff find it, they will most likely reprimand her for it. It will be a huge setback, this has happened before, and she wouldn't talk to me for a week. You know the library well. Please, I need your help sorting everything." Sherlock unceremoniously pulls John out of the chair and directs him down the hall to the library.

There are stacks of books all over the floor, quite a few shelves now empty.

"You know where everything generally goes. I would really be grateful for your help," Sherlock says, going to pick up a few books.

"Alright," John agrees, immediately going to pick up books and place them in the correct sections.

"Have I ever told you about her case?" Sherlock asks as he starts sorting books.

"No."

"She thinks that she was born in the future, and that she's aging backwards in time. She also keeps talking about dinosaur men…"

"You said 'Mrs.'. She's married?"

"Currently, yes. But her husband is in the middle of trying to divorce her."

"That's too bad…"

They continue to pick up the books in silence. With the two of them, the job is finished in little over ten minutes.

"John… where's your cane?" Sherlock asked, feigning confusion.

John looks down at his empty hands, now realizing that he hasn't been using it. He left it back in the lounge area, without even noticing. He looks up at Sherlock with suspicion in his gaze.

Sherlock decides that he doesn't even have to tell the truth. John figured it out, and fortunately seemed to be handling it quite well.

"Annie Ferriston hasn't been my patient for weeks, now," Sherlock says as he walks by John, giving his shoulder a pat.

John lets out a chuckle of amusement, amazed how easily Sherlock was able to pull this.

"I'll get your cane, just in case," Sherlock offers, going to walk out of the room.

"No. Get rid of it, Sherlock," John says with a smile.

_-Life, at best, is bittersweet.-_

"That's why I think she can be discharged," Sherlock confidently says to John, ready to wrap up the session. John has stopped reaching for his cane at the end of sessions, now. The habit is gone. Sherlock goes to stand, looking pleased with himself. "I'll fill out the paperwork for that tonight."

"Will they listen to you this time?" John asks.

"Most likely not, but I think I can make a pretty convincing case. At least open up the possibility next time an appeal is made," Sherlock honestly answers. "It's getting close to dinner. I'll let you go so that you can get something to eat."

"Wait…" John says, looking away.

Sherlock sits back down in his chair. "Something wrong?"

John licks his lips, going quiet for a bit. "I think… I would like to talk about… what happened."

Sherlock knows that he's not ready. But contradicting John right now would do more harm than good.

"Alright. So, where do you want to start?"

"The simple fact, first."

"And what would that be?"

"I killed a civilian."


End file.
